


all in one place

by GKL (freelanceanthem)



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, Gen, Pregnancy, THIS IS A SHIRLEY CRUZ-HATE FREE ZONE, and CHILDREN and everything that always made me uncomfortable so... yeah, genfic, here have some garbage, psgays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2018-11-02 10:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freelanceanthem/pseuds/GKL
Summary: a collection of my tumblr one-shots. enjoy. (not in the order I originally posted them.)(#10 - couer/corazón, a much-needed heart-to-heart in three languages ft. exactly who you think)





	1. 2020 Vision

Preparation for the 2020 Olympics is in full force. Dawn seems to be getting tougher with age, and even the veterans have been knocked on their back by the workouts. Literally, in the case of Tobin Heath, who hasn’t moved from her spot splayed out on the hotel bed since Christen got in the shower–and that had been over half an hour ago.

Everything hurts. She still keeps up with the rookies, of course, but with the call-up of a high schooler who wasn’t even born when she was in high school has exaggerated every nagging thought that yeah, she’s getting old. Her joints crack if she’s still for too long, her bum ankle can sense a change in the weather before the weatherman, and lately, she’s been more interested in hanging out with Alyssa, Becky, and the other, calmer women instead of Sonnett or Kelley, who still hasn’t seemed to grow up.

Not to mention that Christen has continued her habit of “adopting” anyone younger than 24, and the other day, Brianna had actually called her Dad. Mal had found it hilarious. Tobin? Not so much.

But she’s holding her own, still pushing herself, still growing her game. She’s co-captain now, officially, splitting the job with the ever-steady Broon. It’s changed her role on the field but she loves the challenge. With a new head coach and a decent World Cup placing that still left them hungry, the team was ready to reclaim their gold medal habits.

Of course, some days she wishes she could trade in her body for some younger, less achy model.

She glances up, her first movement in some time, when Christen slips in the door, holding two cups of coffee. “Oh, god. I could kiss you.”

Christen smirks, leaning over the bed to hand her a cup and presses a kiss to her lips. “Okay.”

They lay side-by-side, pretending to watch whatever’s on the TV. Once her coffee has cooled, the midfielder sips it and grimaces. “Mm. I just love hotel coffee.”

“You’d have something better if you weren’t too lazy to walk to Starbucks with me,” Christen chides, taking a big drink of her own coffee for effect.

Tobin shrugs. “Not lazy, tired. Dawn kicked our asses this morning, and she’ll do it again tonight.”

“You love two-a-days. ‘Nothing to do but play the game,’ if I remember right?”

Tobin grunts, doesn’t grace her with a reply. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the TV with a little more intensity. From the corner of her eye, she can see Christen grin, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. She’s just bracing herself for the inevitable sassy comment, ready to fire back with an equally snappy retort.

“You’re getting old, Mrs. Press-Heath.”

But that just earns a smile. Tobin reaches over and grabs the striker’s free hand, running her thumb over the rock that now graces her finger. Tobin’s got a matching one, of course, a thick platinum band sans diamond–they’d decided the rock would just get in her way. But it’s got wood from a forest in Portland and sand from a beach in LA and honestly couldn’t be more perfect, just like the newfound joy of being married to Christen Press. Christen Press-Heath, actually.

“Maybe I am getting old,” she says, bringing her wife’s hand to her lips, brushing kisses against her palm. “But there’s no one else I’d rather get old with.”


	2. really short thing w/ babies #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's so short but i wanted to archive it whoops

listen… tobin on the couch with the twins on her chest because they can’t seem to stay asleep a whole night yet and the entire press-heath household is cranky about it but christen needs to run errands (and get the hell out of the house, to be honest). and tobin’s getting better at this parenting thing, she really is, and she can handle two babies and, for the most part, tell them apart (it’s only taken a couple of months). the tv is on low enough so it won’t wake them (she slept on the couch for a week before she learned from that mistake) and she just wants to watch the game. but it’s so peaceful. and her eyelids are so heavy. and the babies are asleep, so–

when christen gets home, she snaps a picture of the three of them splayed out on the couch and can’t resist sending it out to everyone important, captioning it “asleep during an Arsenal game? my girls must be tired.”


	3. really short thing w/ babies #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> still short because fuck you

It’s 2025, and Tobin’s leaving a game with the Press-Heath Pack (the four-year-old twins holding either hand and a very sleepy eighteen-month-old strapped to her chest) when a heckler catches her attention.

She usually ignores them, especially when all she wants to do is get home to her wife and get her son to bed, but this one gets under her skin: “Your children need a man in their lives!!” he screams, face contorted with righteous hatred. It makes her stop in her tracks, blood running cold. And she’s not going to let him get away with it, not this time.

So she turns, focuses in on him with the icy stare usually used only for opponents on the field, and in a tone dripping with all the contempt she can muster, growls

“They do have a man in their life. His name is Jesus. I’d be happy to introduce you two sometime, you might learn something.”

And she takes her daughters’ hands, smirks as the crowd catches on, and walks to where her wife is waiting.


	4. echar agua al mar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to throw water into the sea

she’s handling it well, all things considered. three years, was it? done, over, out the door. dropped off at the airport by Horan. she, uh, _forcibly places_ some stuff at first. okay, throws. she throws some stuff. her bag, her boots, the silver wing on a chain around her neck. a vase. the effect of it shattering was worth the shards of glass she’ll eventually have to pick up.

but she’s thirty years old, a professional, a captain. the captain of an under-funded, under-performing national team, _por todos los cielos_ , she knows how to handle disappointment. and blood-boiling anger. for the most part.

she sweeps up the glass. she draws a bath. and she makes some calls.

it’s three in the morning in Texas. a voicemail, then. The Paris office picks up. She re-signs. They don’t ask questions, they’re just grateful to keep her on. She renews her lease, her physio appointments, stupid stuff like that. She stops uprooting her life for some American kid.

(it hurts, it hurts)

she puts her energy into training. getting back to where she’d been before surgery. olympic qualifiers - can the Cinderella team do it again? swing a spot in a major tournament? not with the draw, not unless they can get through the juggernauts of Canada and the USA (bien sûr, rien n'est facile. Elle ne veut pas les affronter. sa. pas encore. Mais elle n'obtient pas ce qu'elle veut.)

she lashes out. just once. tensions are high, the ref is _en el culo de los americanos_ and she’s fucking fouled. so she takes her hand and _forcibly places_ Tobin’s leg. just once, for good measure.

_I threw your vase,_ she thinks, as if the kid could hear her. _it shattered. you should’ve seen it. your spanish sucks, by the way._

but the game goes on. five-zero. Vero’s American girl gets a golazo. Tobin gets the assist. Shirley’s subbed out thanks to her knee. “jugaste bien,” amelia says when she gets to the sideline. “no te hagas daño,” in more ways than one.

(they don’t earn a berth in the olympics. she wasn’t expecting to, but it hurts. it hurts.)

she puts her energy into her club. into the captain’s band she now wears for them. into the champions league bracket and the upcoming crusade.

Vero calls. she’s seen the pictures - who hasn’t seen the pictures? they’re attached at the hip. One thing’s clear - both of _sus chicas americanas_ have moved on (to each other). “So… You’re staying in Paris, then?”

Paris defeats Barça in the quarterfinals. Something finally goes right. Vero calls again. “I’ve been thinking of brushing up on my French.”

she allows herself the smallest glimmer of hope.

Lyon crushes them in the semis. Her heart is ripped from her chest for what seems like the thousandth time in a year. the bitter taste of disappointment is more common than success. like throwing water into the ocean, fighting back against the flood of despair seems pointless.

she wears two wings around her neck - it should feel right. angels have two wings, right? no one makes a fuss when she returns home, even though they all know who should have one half. who used to have one half. wings, hearts.

(it’s been half a year, why does it hurt? six months. it hurts.)

but Vero signs with Paris.

_something clicks_ \- they’re attached at the hip - the US game goes better - they speak after the final whistle. Time heals all wounds, and for once, the distance worked in their favor. the American kid isn’t a kid anymore. (it’s about time.) but she’s grown up. she’s happy. _y eso es todo lo que siempre he querido por ella, ¿no?_

And she returns to Paris. Home. And there’s no ache in her chest, no longing for something halfway across the world, and her home is more beautiful for it. And with Vero… _De golpe,_ something that has been happening for a long time suddenly crashes together in a beautiful mess. A second chance. After all, the Americans did it - más vale tarde que nunca.

For the first time in a long time - no wings. none needed. She’s got both feet on the ground.

(paris is most beautiful when you’re in love, nothing hurts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because we can't all be trilingual like shirley cruz:  
> por todos los cielos - for the love of the heavens/for heaven's sake  
> bien sûr, rien n'est facile. Elle ne veut pas les affronter. sa. pas encore. Mais elle n'obtient pas ce qu'elle veut. [fr]- of course, nothing's easy. She doesn't want to face them. Her. Not yet. But she doesn't get what she wants.  
> el culo de los americanos - in the asshole of the americans :)  
> jugaste bien. no te hagas daño. - you played well. don't hurt yourself/don't push yourself.  
> sus chicas americanas - their american girls  
> y eso es todo lo que siempre he querido por ella, ¿no? - and that's all she ever wanted for [tobin], no?  
> de golpe - suddenly  
> más vale tarde que nunca - better late than never


	5. on women and weddings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i love my trash child and causing her pain/this read better as a tumblr post because it's half shitpost half fic

mmmm do you ever think about how Tobin cried at HAO’s wedding in late 2011 (because she’s so soft) but also because she’s figuring out that oh, shit, _she likes girls_ and it’s so goddamn hard because suddenly, she thinks, she’ll never have this big beautiful chapel wedding that’s been the expectation her whole life (maybe she hasn’t put thought into this for herself, per se, but the pressure and precedent is there) and she can’t help but mourn even if she can’t put words to the feeling (she never can)

because it’s just one more layer of guilt, of anxiety, of ‘why am I feeling this,’ of ‘I shouldn’t have these thoughts’ but she does and she can’t stop now, she never could. because after learning her whole life how wrong it is, this is the most _right_ she’s been in a long time. because even though lately her stomach twists into a knot whenever she closes her eyes to pray, her heart soars when her teammate smiles that radiant smile _just for her_ and it’s blasphemous but she knows without hesitation which sensation she prefers.

and she stops trying to think about weddings. too far off, and she’s always preferred to live in the moment anyway. (that’s what she tells herself, at least, to make it easier. it’s not like it’s just one more milestone she’ll never have, because girls who like girls don’t get those milestones)

it all goes to shit, of course, somewhere in the middle, and the sinking feeling in her gut rarely goes away, and the guilt still claws at her like the nails of the girl underneath her down her back (and, of course, that’s when she minds it the least)

but it’s somewhere in Sweden when Christen sighs, eyes wide, taking in the sights and splendor of some countryside cathedral and murmurs “i want our wedding to be somewhere like this” and blushes when she realizes what she’s implied–

and Tobin pulls her close because they can be anonymous in sweden, and presses a kiss to her forehead because she can’t put words to the feeling (she never can) but replies with a newfound confidence

“me too.”

because five years later, she’s at peace.


	6. practice makes perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a preath pregnancy au based on [this picture](https://goalkeeperland.tumblr.com/image/159154366002)
> 
> so yeah i'd avoid this if you hate pregnancy as a trope (aka me until like, a month ago)

the first thing Tobin notices is Khaleesi–more specifically, the fact that she’s nowhere to be found. Usually, the dog will meet her at the door, weaving through her legs and looking for attention, but as Tobin steps into her LA home, no one greets her. So Tobin throws her bags to the side, slips off her sandals, and investigates.

She finds the dog on the couch wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket, just her face peaking out. Khaleesi lets out a whine. “Hey, girl. What happened here?” She finds the edge of the blanket and frees the dog, who leaps from the couch and shakes herself dramatically. The midfielder smiles in spite of herself and gives her dog a scratch behind the ear.

“Chris? Why is our dog pretending to be a burrito?”

She finds her wife in their bedroom, the other dog curled up around her swollen stomach. Tears roll silently down her cheeks. Tobin freezes in the doorway. “Oh, hey, whoa. Christen. What’s wrong?”

Christen glances up, begins to cry harder, and buries her face in Morena’s fur. Tobin springs into action, crawling onto the bed to lay beside her. She slides her arms around the baby bump, pressing a kiss to the back of her wife’s hair. “Chris. Hey. It’s okay. What’s up?”

“I can’t do this,” Christen cries, voice muffled.

“Can’t do what?”

“Babies, Tobin. Two of them. How am I going to care for two babies?”

Tobin feels her heart break, and instinctively pulls her closer. “No. Baby. You’ve got this. Look at Morena and Khaleesi! You raised two great dogs.”

“No, my parents did.”

“Oh.” Tobin cringes. “But I’ve seen you with A-Rod’s kids, and Ali and Ash’s, and you’re great with them. And, yeah, the twins thing is kind of… scary. But I’m here too! Two babies, two moms. It works out perfectly.”

Christen glances up and lets out a weak chuckle. “Okay. Let’s pretend we did that on purpose.”

Tobin grins, giving her a quick kiss. “That’s the spirit!”

But the pregnant woman sobers up quickly, lip wobbling. “I can’t even swaddle right, Tobin. It’s basic stuff and I can’t do it. There’s so much I have to learn.”

The midfielder frowns, wheels turning in her head. “Is that why Khaleesi was a burrito?” This sends Christen into full-on sobs again, and Tobin hurries to make it better again. “I mean, she was a beautiful burrito. The best. And we’re gonna have most beautiful burrito babies. Because they’re ours.”

Christen lets out a pitiful sniffle, but she nods. “I know. I’m really excited, just… scared.”

“Me too. It’s really scary.” She holds her wife closer, trying to ignore the panic that shoots through her whenever she thinks about caring for a tiny, tiny creature. But Christen, for once, seems unfazed. She’s staring off into space, looking thoughtful.

“Can we have ice cream? I’m having a craving.”

Tobin glances at her, trying to keep up with the emotional rollercoaster. “Chris… I threw it all out last week because you said it made you sick just to see it.”

“Oh. That’s right.” Christen looks so heartbroken that Tobin sighs.

“Okay. I’ll run to the store.”

Christen grins, and Tobin’s reminded once again of how pregnancy truly does make you glow–not like her wife isn’t always radiant, but this is a newfound light, one that fills Tobin’s heart with a similar brightness when she imagines raising their children together. And it makes the late-night ice cream runs, whiplash from moodswings, and blanket-burrito breakdowns so, so worth it.


	7. "is that my shirt?" prompt fill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon requested "is that my shirt?" & the PSGays (shirley x vero) // this is on a whole new level of cheesy

Vero leaves in the morning. Or, more accurately, she leaves in about six hours, before the sun will even think of rising, but neither of them want to mention that or go to sleep, since it means those six hours will go even more quickly. Doesn’t matter – Vero can sleep on the plane. And Shirley will sleep on the Spaniard’s side of the bed.

The Algarve Cup. It’s not like she’ll be gone for too long, just a couple of weeks. But it’s the first time they’ll be apart since… since before they got together. And it’s the newness that gets under her skin, makes the panic rise in her chest.

They’re just talking. Shirley couldn’t even say what they’re talking about, just words to fill the empty space above them and the time in front of them. It had started as talking shop—usually banned past the living room after an increasingly frustrated Vero had gotten tired of hearing her teammates’ names just as frequently as her own while the two were in bed together. But tonight is different, (and they’re dressed) and they just want to… to talk.

It’s not until Vero props herself up on an elbow, scoots even closer until there’s no space between them, rests her hand on the hard lines and soft curves of Shirley’s stomach, that they end their mindless chatter.

Shirley has to swallow around the lump that the small, gentle movement brings to her throat. And Vero notices.

“What’s on your mind, _mi cielito_?”

She shrugs as best as she can while on her back. Vero curls her fingers to dig into the soft cotton of Shirley’s shirt, adding comforting pressure.

“Hang on—is that my shirt?”

Shirley glances up guiltily, caught in the act, but Vero’s just smirking at her with that ever-present warmth—that look that makes her feel as if she’s the most important woman in the whole wide world, that look that might make her believe it.

“C’mon, _mi cielito_ , I don’t think you went to the Vero Boquete Football Camp in 2015.”

This brings a small smile to her face, though she’s just as guilty. It’s soft, worn in the way that only those old, well-loved t-shirts can be. And it smells like Vero - like warm sun and sharp spices and clean sheets on lazy mornings. So she’d knicked it the last time they’d spent the night at Vero’s flat instead of her’s, even though their closets were close to split equally among the two. And with the spaniard’s impending departure, with emotions surprisingly raw, she’d slipped it on after her shower purely for comfort.

Not that she’d admit it, of course.

“I just wanted something of yours.” She murmurs, averting her gaze back to the ceiling.

“All of mine is yours,” Vero replies sweetly. She swings a leg over to straddle the older woman, sitting low on her hips. Her hands brush along the lettering, tracing her own name on Shirley’s chest. Silence stretches out between them – Vero’s suddenly as nervous, tentative, as Shirley’s been since the start.

Finally, she breaks the silence –

“If I brought you an _España_ jersey, my jersey, would you wear it?”

Warmth spreads through Shirley from head to toe at the thought – wearing nine, red and gold, Vero’s name on the back. Her face hurts from smiling. She pushes up from the bed, to pull Vero closer by the hips.

“Sí. Of course. I’d love to,” she breathes, running her hands up the striker’s sides. Vero grins and kisses her, slips her hand around to cup the back of her neck and tangle in the loose strands of raven black hair. They get lost in it for a few long minutes, the upcoming distance present in the back of their minds.

Vero breaks the kiss first, rocking back to rest on Shirley’s thighs, breathless, eyes sparkling (and absolutely radiant, if you ask the woman underneath her).

“Okay. Keep the shirt.” Her grip on the back of Shirley’s neck tightens as she grows serious. “But I’m going to get you a real one. My jersey. Because what’s mine is yours but _you_ are _mine_.”

The 2015 Vero Boquete Football Camp t-shirt spends the rest of the night discarded on the floor.


	8. The Miseducation of Tobin Heath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for christianity & mentions of child abuse. inspired by the book "The Miseducation of Cameron Post" which is fucking hard to get through.
> 
> hbd tobin!!! sorry for everything I put you through :))))

_1 As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, 2 in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient. 3 All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our flesh and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature deserving of wrath. 4 But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, 5 made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved._

she’d recognize the verses anywhere. Ephesians, albeit one of the lesser-quoted passages. The last part is great, but the whole “dead in your transgressions and sins” doesn’t exactly look great embroidered throw pillows or printed on magnets. It’s a little dark. Which is why it’s surprising to find next to a picture of a bunch of school kids, standing in orderly lines, plaid uniforms and all. she flips the postcard over in her hands, takes in the “Wishing you the Love, Peace & Happiness that the true meaning of Christmas brings” on the front, the name of the school printed in the corner--God’s Promise. It shouldn’t be out of place among the stack of similar cards, but something about it rubs her the wrong way. Curiosity gets the best of her--

“yo, mom, what’s this?”

Cindy Heath glances up from her stove, smiling softly just from taking in the sight of her youngest daughter home. “Which one? We’ve gotten a lot of cards this year. Gold medal number two has made our household even more popular than the first one.”

Tobin rolls her eyes but smiles in spite of herself, glancing over to where her medal hangs on the tree. 2012 had been good to her, despite the wrist and the ankle and the collapse of an entire league--you know, small stuff. She has faith that it’ll all turn out in the end. an intriguing offer to from France sits in the back of her mind, but for now she’s content to enjoy the holiday with her family. Her siblings arrive later in the week, so for now, it’s just the two of them.

“This one. It’s like, from a school or something.”

Her mom nods absentmindedly, having gone back to whatever she’s baking. “Mmhm, it is a school, somewhere in Montana. They send me quarterly cards because I support their ministry, you know. They work with sexually deviant teens.”

“Sexually...”

The room goes as cold as the New Jersey winter outside, and her breath catches in her throat. “Sexually deviant?” She asks weakly.

“Yeah, you know, pregnant teenagers, the homosexuals, anyone who needs a little more of God’s guidance. They turn them into real, upstanding adults.”

Tobin can’t breathe. She stares down at the postcard. The round, young faces of a dozen girls stare back at her. She thinks she might be sick--the homosexuals.

_you were dead in your transgressions and sins_

How many of them had been caught playing “doctor” with the girl next door? Or at the back of the movie theater with their tongue down some older girl’s throat?

_gratifying the cravings of our flesh_

How many were there because they’d turned themselves in? Because they knew what they were feeling was wrong.

_we were by nature deserving of wrath_

“They used my favorite book,” she says slowly, more to herself than anything. “They used Ephesians. It’s so... wrong.”

“What’s that?” Her mother asks, barely paying attention as she goes about her work. Barely paying attention as her daughter spirals.

Something in Tobin breaks. She crumples the postcard up in her hand--the pale faces of the girls, the strict uniforms, the words from her favorite book of the Bible disappear in one motion. She drops it to the ground as if she’d been burned and breathes, ragged, her lungs filled with fire, her veins filled with ice.

“So it’s a school to what? Pray the gay away? Fix these broken girls?”

Her harsh tone finally gets her mother’s attention. “I--yes, Tobin, that’s what it is.”

“Because they... they need to be fixed.” Her words are laced with cold fury.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this.”

“You can’t just... you can’t pray the gay away, mom.”

“Sweetie, I--”

“You can’t because I’ve tried,” The words are out of her mouth before I can stop them, pulled from some deep place within her by the sheer intensity of her anger. Tobin freezes, and so does her mother, and there’s a tense, quiet moment that seems to last lifetimes. The fight leaves her in a single sigh and she feels weak, breathless, like she’s been running sprints or kissing girls. She keeps her eyes glued to the floor in between her feet. “I’m gay, mom. I’m... I’m not broken.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not like this.

She runs. Grabs the keys from their hook and starts the car and drives and drives and drives and thinks about her mother’s face and how she hadn’t even said a word.

She runs to where she always runs, to a soccer pitch. It’s empty, the grass dead and covered in a coat of frost. There’s a ball in her car like always but she doesn’t even get it, just sinks to the ground, winds her fingers through the frozen blades, enjoying the sting of the ice on her palms.

Lauren picks up three rings in. Her voice is bright until Tobin starts to sob.

“It all happened so fast, Cheney. I didn’t--I didn’t mean to, but I was just so mad.”

Her friend just listens, lets her let it all out. “I can’t go back. I can’t go back and I have none of my stuff, and Kelley’s in California so I can’t even stay with her. The whole--the whole holiday’s ruined because I couldn’t stay in the closet for a couple more weeks.”

And Cheney always has gentle words and good advice and offers to pray with her but even the thought of it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, not with the image of the verse from Ephesians next to tortured girls burned into her brain. So she thanks her and quietly says goodbye and then she’s left to her own thoughts again in the cold December sun. She wipes away the last of her tears so they don’t freeze to her cheeks.

She’s so caught up in it all that she doesn’t hear the car approach. It’s not until footsteps crunch in the grass near her that she flinches and looks up--it’s her mother, of course, because He can be so, so cruel.

“I thought you might want a coat,” Cindy says softly, holding it up like a peace offering. Tobin rubs her bare arms but stares stoically ahead. But her mother doesn’t take a hint, joints cracking as she settles herself in the grass next to her daughter. They’re quiet for a long time.

“I knew, by the way. Some part of me at least.”

Tobin snorts, turns even further away.

“No, really,” her mother says, still ever so gentle. “So I haven’t been the best at coming to terms with it, but I’ve always--I’ve always loved you. And I will always love you.”

More silence. But the tension begins to thaw. Her mother swallows audibly.

“I’m... I’m sorry. That you felt the need to try to pray it away. I’d have hoped that I had instilled upon you that... He doesn’t make mistakes. Hatred is a human invention.”

Tobin rubs her arms again, turning minutely to grab her coat and slip it on, still avoiding her mother’s gaze.

“I’m going to France.” She says, voice rough.

“Okay.”

“I need to be away.”

“I understand.”

Her mother fishes something from her pocket, a small box gift-wrapped for the holiday. “I know it’s a little early, but I thought you could open this. It’s--it was supposed to be your gold medal, so you could wear it every day. But I think it might be meaningful in a different sense now.”

Tobin glances over, opening up her palm on the frozen grass to accept the offering. She makes quick work of the wrapping and flicks the jewelry box open. Inside is a thick gold ring, shining brightly even in the dull December sun.

“It’s a--a promise, Tobin. That your dad and I love you and will always love you and He loves you too. And one day we’ll love whichever woman you bring home, okay?”

Her mother’s voice is oh so quiet, hesitant, and-- genuine. The tiniest hint of guilt creeps into Tobin as they wait--this had been hard for both of them, really. And she’s so selfish sometimes. So immature. The box sits heavy in her palm. “Will you wear it?”

She’s still raw, still hurt, feeling the emotional whiplash in her heart and deep in her gut. But she’s also more at peace than she has felt for a long time.

“Yeah. I’ll wear it.”

“I--I love you.” Her mother’s voice breaks.

Tobin slips the ring on her long middle finger, twists it to see how it catches the sun. It does remind her of her gold medal, but now it’s--it’s bigger than that.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aging myself by writing genfic. next one will be preath cause i owe y'all ;)


	9. and i'll use you as a warning sign (that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And I'll use you as a focal point_   
>  _So I don't lose sight of what I want_   
>  _And I've moved further than I thought I could_   
>  _But I missed you more than I thought I would_   
>  _And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_   
>  _Right in front of me_   
>  _Talk some sense to me_
> 
>  (angsty tobin w/ preath and background cr*zin just to piss off @dahlkemp)
> 
> [listen to this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbSZhGONRBg)

The thing is, Lauren Holiday always knows what to say, even when Tobin doesn’t want to hear it.

“How long have you and Christen been so close?” she keeps it casual.

(if she’s being honest, it starts in brazil. she’s got the most fucking beautiful eyes, how has she never noticed before?)

“Oh, awhile,” Cheney replies. “Probably even before her first cap. She’s a sweet girl.”

she can’t help but wonder what else she hasn’t noticed.

//

“do you think you can be in love with two people at the same time?”

(her mouth betrays her just like her heart)

“Sure,” Cheney says. “I love a lot of different people. Like you, and ARod, and Jrue,”

“That’s different. Different kinds of love.”

“Then you just answered your own question.”

//

“Someone’s going to get hurt.”

If Tobin grinds her teeth any harder, they’re going to crack and fall out of her head. 

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

(she doesn’t mean to snap, but that’s all she seems to be able to do lately.)

“You’re going to have to do something, Tobin. You can’t go on like this forever.”

“I need to be focusing on the world cup. On my game.”

There are many unspoken things that hang in the air. But Cheney lets it drop, lets her run away.

//

“do you regret it?”

(there’s no judgment, no disappointment, no fiery pits of hell. somehow, that makes her feel even worse.)

But it’s not regret or guilt sitting low in her stomach, just even more doubt.

She slowly shakes her head. “That was the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

“Tobin, you’d just won a world cup,” Cheney says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I know. But I would’ve kissed her even if we’d lost.”

//

“do you think it’s bad I missed her birthday?”

“She understands.”

Actually, Tobin’s not sure if she actually understands, but she’s also not sure if they’re actually on the rocks or if she’s just projecting her guilt onto the whole situation.

“I’m tired of—“

(a million ways to end that sentence race through her head)

“—missing milestones.”

“We do lead a difficult lifestyle.”

//

“I’ve booked a flight to Paris.”

If Cheney is surprised, she hides it well. “And…?”

“They both deserve better. ”

“I’m glad you’re finally being sensible.”

she doesn’t feel like she’s being sensible. she feels like she’s fucking terrified. 

But she can’t keep this up. 

Because out of all of this chaos the only thing that she’s relatively sure about is that she wants to spend the rest of her life with christen press, if she’d let her.

(and when that day comes, she’ll come to Lauren for advice.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty much a piece of shit disguised as dialogue practice and i apologize


	10. couer/corazón

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a much-needed heart-to-heart in three languages {july 2016}

July in Kansas City is murderously hot--103 and 85% humidity drains the energy from even the fittest of athletes, and the entire team feels like they’re dragging. Christen excuses herself quickly from the fans after the game and finds a place out of the sun, grateful to just lean against the cool walls of the tunnel.

Already, the striker finds herself running through the game in her mind, cataloging missed chances and poor touches. There are way too many for coming in at the sixty-fifth minute. The Olympics loom. Her chest feels tight when she so much as thinks about it. If she’s going to be a sub, she has to be a super sub--and no offense, but scoring a goal against a team they consistently beat six or seven goals to zero isn’t exactly impressive.

At least it hit the net, not the crossbar. This time.

Stuck in her head, she barely notices the other team exiting the pitch. They don’t spare her a glance, looking just as beat as she feels. But they’d held their own tonight. They’re a young but scrappy team, and she has nothing but respect for them. Their captain is the last off, her head held high, a proud, defiant look in her eyes. It’s this that draws Christen’s attention--and sends her anxiety through the roof.

Because it’s Shirley Cruz. And she’s heading straight for her.

Her heart’s pounding in her chest as if they’ve just finished the game. Her girlfriend’s ex-girlfriend is stalking purposefully for her. She wants to shrink under that blazing gaze, but she forces herself to square up, tries not to feel like she’s been cornered.

It’s not like she hasn’t thought about this. Even before she and Tobin had been.... a _thing,_ she’d played scenario after scenario out in her head. When the two teams had faced each other in CONCACAF qualifying, she had barely slept the night before. But the Costa Rican captain had taken out her frustration with the game and the drama solely on Tobin--which made sense, because by then, just a handful of their friends even knew what was going on between them.

But here’s her chance to see every scenario realized. And she’s not ready, she wants to run, she can’t face down this woman whom she’s ached with jealousy for so, so long only to have their situations reversed in a whirlwind and--

“Christen.”

“H-hey. Good game.” _Not bad, Press. Only a hint of a stutter._

“You too. You score good goals, striker’s goals.” Her English is good, but stiff, and Christen is reminded that this is her third language. In the Champions League days, they’d conversed solely in Spanish, but that had been when she was with Vero and practiced daily.

She wonders if the older woman even remembers their interactions, back when Tyresö had faced PSG and beaten them soundly. After the second game, the Americans had gone out together in a rush of worlds colliding and hearts breaking.

(Vero was great. Sweden was great. And she’d heard the rumors--of course Tobin Heath would drop everything to play in Paris _and_ get a girlfriend. But now the girlfriend was real. And beautiful. And gave the lanky midfielder a confidence that hadn’t been seen since she’d started following Alex Morgan around like a lovesick puppy. All things considered, everything sucked.)

But Christen pulls herself out of her head yet again and, in an effort to diffuse the tension both women feel stretching between them, braves the language barrier.

“ _Thank you. That means a lot. I’ve loved watching you play for Paris, you’ve turned them into a real... contender._ ” She manages to string together a decent sentences in Spanish, drawing on her Stanford studies and Swedish experiences. And it works. Shirley softens--minutely, and it doesn’t make her any less intimidating, but it’s enough. Christen can work with it.

“ _Thank you,_ ” Shirley replies, again in Spanish. A smile plays at her lips. “ _I’d like to take us back to the Champions League, now that Tyresö isn’t a threat._ ”

Christen smiles, albeit nervously. “ _Sure. Your biggest competition would come from your own league, so--_ ”

As Christen stumbles over Spanish, Tobin rounds the corner, obviously tipped off by someone who knew enough to be dangerous - her eyes are wide and flit between the two women as she approaches. If Christen weren’t a little terrified herself, she’d almost find it comical.

“Yo, Shirley, it’s good to see you.” Her words are casual but she’s anything but. She skids to a stop and instantly twists her hands into her jersey, her oldest nervous habit.

Shirley gives her a smile. “You too. You’re coming off an injury?“

“Hamstring. Ugly club game, you know how it is.” Tobin grimaces. “Just glad to see minutes, I guess. I don’t like sitting on the bench.”

“Someday you’re going to have to slow down,” Shirley says with a light laugh, shaking her head. “Christen, make sure she does rest, yes?”

“You know, we try and it never seems to work, you know?” Christen replies, giggling nervously through her words. She wipes her face with the collar of her jersey and shifts her weight. A tense silence settles on them even as the world goes on around them - Shirley, for once, seems to have the upper hand. But she’s relaxed, a far cry from the last time the two interacted. The time that had included a foul or two and a well-placed push on her leg.

Some things just can’t be left off the pitch.

But that was then. They’re nine months out from the last time they spoke. Nine months for wounds to heal and for new things to start. Shirley slips into French flawlessly, almost too quick for Tobin to keep up - and purposefully leaving Christen behind. “ _Elle est trés jolie. I didn’t know what to think at first, but I’ve always just wanted the best for you. Et tu l'as bien fait._ ”

Tobin blinks, wheels turning in her head. “Oui. Merci.” Her gaze slides to Christen, who’s still chewing her lip anxiously - but valiantly trying to hide it. Her heart skips a beat It’s been a year since she tried her French, but the handful of phrases isn’t bad. She knows enough to sound confident in her answer, genuine. Both of the women in front of her deserve it. “ _Je suis._ ”

Shirley nods, ever so slightly. “Take care of yourselves, _oui_? And each other.“

It’s Christen who replies, letting herself smile genuinely what feels like the first time in the encounter. “You too. Will you tell Vero hello from me?“

“ _Bien sûr_ , of course. She’ll be happy to hear from you. Speaking of, I am going to go see Lindsey. She had a good game too.” She gives them both a quick nod and turns to go.

“Merci, Shirley.” Tobin says quickly, surprising even herself. But all three of them seem to understand.

It’s enough. Shirley heads back to the pitch - but not before glancing back over her shoulder. “ _Lo digo en serio! Buena suerte, ella es un melón. Pero yo lo sabías._ ”

Christen freezes - then, to Tobin’s confusion, collapses into fits of laughter.

_(when #dogsforchristen goes viral, shirley quietly sends her a pic of vero with some puppies and a message of encouragement; when tobin’s minor back injury turns into a months-long ordeal, she’s reminded of shirley telling her she’ll have to slow down some day and actually takes the advice to heart; when her move to china is announced, it’s christen who congratulations her - and shirley returns the favor when news of christen’s return to europe breaks. it’s understood that neither move is ideal. it’s understood that progress is slow, beyond either of their careers. and it’s understood they’ll never be fast friends - but when the US plays Costa Rica, they’re sure to chat in fast phrases in the languages Tobin will never keep up with, just to get under her skin.)_

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh shirleycruz.tumblr.com if you didn't already know me from there.
> 
> I'll probably be keeping my garbage to here now since I'm getting ready to write some longer stuff (gasp)
> 
> anyway i keep saying i write this stuff for myself but let's be real, I really want that sweet, sweet validation.


End file.
